Capro Espiatorio
by aLittleTooLiora
Summary: Five years ago, disaster dissolved the team, but one brother's unexpected return forces Michelangelo to reunite his estranged family and heal old wounds. Slash, incest, violence, language. Multiple pairings.


AN: Hi, all! I'm Liora. I'm relatively new to the TMNT fandom, but not to fandom in general, and I wanted to begin contributing so I could connect with like-minded fans. I enjoy dark slash fics and trope dissection/discussion, and I'll likely continue in that vein in my future submissions (though hopefully they'll gain some maturity and originality). This story was a knee-jerk reaction to turtlecest—I wanted to indulge in it without glamorizing it, though this opening chapter feels a little glib. I'd love your feedback, positive or negative. End game pairings are still up in the air. Feel free to weigh in about what you would like to see. If no one has any opinions, I'll likely just default to OT4, but as of now, the full plotline contains bits of M/D, R/D, R/M, and L/R (not necessarily in that order).

**Fic warnings: incest/turtlecest (Mikey/Don established), sex, violence, language, (past) noncon, mind fuckery, angst.**

Edit: Changed the title because there was already an excellent TMNT fanfic with the same name. "Capro espiatorio" means "scapegoat" in Italian.

* * *

**Capro Espiatorio  
****by aLittleTooLiora  
****Chapter One**

* * *

Franco Montanari had finally worked up the courage to ask Tara to dinner. They were boxing tonsils over the Amaro and panna cotta when Michelangelo alighted on the far edge of the rooftop patio, skidding to a sharp, silent halt just outside the soft glow of the weathered post lanterns. He took one easy handspring back into the shadows and repressed a sigh. Glanced at his shell cell for the time. It was three in the morning—well past bedtime for minor league _guerrieri_ like Montanari and his entourage. "Wrap it up, dude," Michelangelo muttered, softly snapping his fingers. "_Il tempo è denaro_. I wanna go home."

As if in agreement, Tara hurled herself at Franco like panties at a Rolling Stones concert, and the frenzied couple began struggling toward the roof access door without disengaging their tongues. Throaty moans from both kids. Flash of Tara's left buttock, hugged by red lace. Then they were clattering down the aluminum stairs, panting and groping, and Michelangelo grinned without humor and strode to his usual post on the ristorante's terrace. They weren't gonna be back any time soon. It might've technically been their first date, but the sexual tension had been two years in the making. Mike pinched out the flames on the stout pillar candles, giving the packed ashtray a hopeful inspection for refries. Maybe there was—yes! One not-too-crooked Marlboro, mentholated, but better than a kick in the face. He lit it and placed it between his teeth, Tara's lipstick still waxy on the paper.

"Not a chance, Michelangelo. Put it out."

He inhaled too fast and damn near swallowed the cigarette whole. "D-Don!" he choked, coughing and pitching it away. He felt like he'd just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "What's up? I, uh, may have forgotten you were watching."

"You don't say," said Donatello. And, man, the mics and earpieces were too damn good these days—now that Mike was paying attention again, he could actually hear whatever it was Donnie was tinkering with, the tinny chime of metal on metal as he cobbled together who-the-hell-knew-what. A bloodstream nicotine detector, maybe. Or perhaps some sort of super advanced anal probe that delivered comprehensive reports straight to Don's prefrontal cortex, so Don would know when Michelangelo was eating, how _much_ he was eating, and what kind of surface he was sitting on at any given time.

_Guy already owns my soul_, Michelangelo thought, snuffing out the last flame with a petulant tweak of his fingertips. _Why shouldn't he own my ass, too?_

Which was kind of funny, when you considered—well.

Don's voice was thin and harried through the tiny cochlear implant Mike had tucked in before patrol. "Mikey, stop pouting. You asked me to help you quit. You pulled a muscle coughing last week on watch when—"

"I remember that, Donatello. I was there." The resentment had already evaporated—never stuck around long, not toward Donnie—but he still wanted that cigarette like burning. He kicked a loose pebble of concrete off the roof. Watched it ricochet against the neighboring building. "Wasn't pouting," he grumbled under his breath.

And Don, of course, heard him anyway. "Were so."

"I'm not fifteen fucking years old anymore! I do _not_—"

"I could see your lower lip. Do you know how far you have to stick out your lower lip for it to show up in frame?"

"Is _this_ showing up in frame?" Mike snapped, flicking a Longbowman salute at the nanotech camera on his left sclera—and was pleased when Don actually laughed the sudden, unselfconscious laugh of his childhood. Michelangelo hadn't heard that sound in years. Neither of them had. He felt the corners of his own mouth tugging up into a grin, timid and unfamiliar. "Heh. Did I just tell myself to sod off?"

"Kind of," said Don, still chuckling.

"Better take my own advice, then," said Michelangelo, and launched himself back into the night.

And _this_. This was Mike's favorite thing now, his route through Italian-American Bronx—the tarantella rhythm of it, the tenements, its soft, vigorous vernacular that felt domestic and new and unknowable all at the same time. He and Don had been living here for—damn. Nearly five years now, and the freedom of it still caught Mike full in the heart like a tender look from his father, or a before-things-went-to-shit memory that roused him laughing at noon, mouth curled around his thumb. "Mikey" might have died long before his time, but he stained Michelangelo's sleep with childish color. Sometimes he still dreamt about Silver Sentry and Christmas and the day they defeated the Shredder. Sometimes, Mike still dreamt about his family.

But that was a lifetime ago, and it was better left there, because even a non-psychotic brother would've been too much more for the tiny place he shared with Don on Pelham to handle. As it was, they barely had room for separate thoughts anymore, let alone pursuits or meals or beds. He lived Don, _breathed_ Don, from the instant he blinked awake to make their lunch, straight up to his post-patrol shower, where Don so often stepped in sleepily behind him to strip him of surveillance gear or scrub down his shell. Even on beat, the audio feed—and now the video, he supposed—served as Michelangelo's reminders. He'd tried on the ocular implant just once, when Don was still testing it. It fed the footage straight to the viewer's eyes, at first dizzying, then so peripheral it was almost subconscious. No recordings, that meant. No evidence. And when Mike had tentatively questioned the wisdom of that sort of transience, Don had replied gently that he would remember everything.

Probably would, too. Mike paused on top of the pizzeria to sigh and stretch. He'd gladly be the muscle if it meant Don would be the memory keeper, no contest there. Memory was deceptive. Memory was an evil, maggot-infested old bitch.

Quite the opposite, in fact, of the bugless young woman (or really freaked out man) who split the night several blocks over with a high, harrowing scream.

Mike whirled. "Don—?"

"I heard. I'm on it." Flurry of Don's fingers across the keyboard, his rolling chair squeaking across the kitchen tile toward another monitor. "I think it came from somewhere around Vitello's. Start at Prospect and work your way west."

"West? Is that my left or—"

"_A sinistra_."

Left. Michelangelo took a running leap off the roof and vaulted toward the auto repair shop, favoring the route that took him across the cinema, Lucy Hutton's bakery, and the small deli that delivered groceries to his and Don's door once every two weeks. Their turf. The only above-ground society that had ever been strong enough to impose itself upon their sewer-dwelling parlance. Half a decade here and they were still little more than rumors, tall tales—but there was ownership in that. The Bronx's Shadows. It was more than a population had ever given them before, and damned if that wasn't worth protecting.

The familiar metallic scent rocked him before he even reached the body. He cupped a hand over his nostrils. "Shit."

"What is it?"

"Blood."

Long pause. Then Don said, "I didn't hear any gunshots. Did you? It might be him."

Mike's heart hammered in his chest. If this was their guy, this'd be his third hit this month. The murders had begun in West Virginia last July, creeping closer and closer, and now they were only three and a half miles from home. Women and men butchered beyond recognition. Partially eaten, sometimes. Always bled out. Mike swung himself onto a high-rise fire escape and scaled the railings, scanning for movement as he climbed. He aborted his ascent a few stories up and plunged back to the street. Too fucking quiet out there. Even the woman who'd discovered the body had stopped screaming. If there was anyone around aside from the now-fleeing witness, they sure knew how to stick to the shadows.

When Mike was absolutely sure that everything was still, he approached the body.

The victim was twisted on the pavement. It was a man in a long thrift store coat, middle-aged, eerily handsome even amid the carnage. Strangely intact, too, as if the killer had been interrupted mid-slaughter. Mike inched forward and gingerly tugged at a lapel, searching for a wallet.

Don beat him to it. "That's Louis Lo Prete. Fifty-two, drove the Bx17. Carrie Lo Prete is his daughter, remember her? Beautiful on the cello. She lost her mother last spring. God, Mikey—this is going to ruin her."

They'd been doing this ever since Don had memorized the city directory. Personalizing it until it was painful. Mike hated it, but they owed it to their people, didn't they? Who else was going to remember Kel Hutton's laugh or Josh DeLaurentis' hook shot or the way Holly Lawson always sneaked a cigarette under the rose trellis after babysitting the Donovan twins? Memory-keeping. Saving everything was important because watching was their job now, their central function in a world that could never truly include them. Remembering came second only to protecting. And they were sure doing a shit-lousy job of that these days. Mike lashed out at a nearby trashcan, sending it rolling through the alley.

"Mikey?" said Leonardo, from somewhere in the darkness.

He twitched in surprise, hands flying instinctually to his empty weapons holders. Couldn't help it, the bastard _always_ got the jump on him, and Mike was immediately furious with himself for giving Leo the satisfaction after all this time. He firmed his mouth and resumed his examination of Lo Prete's body, taking a small, twisted pleasure in Leo's pained silence. Don was saying something softly in Italian, his voice cracking.

"Michelangelo, please," Leo said, almost pleading, and stepped into the light.

Mike turned to fix his brother with a bright, cutting smile. "Hey, stranger. What's doin'?"

Leo didn't even bother to service that banality. He actually faltered. Wonder of wonders. "My god. I know it's been ages, but you look so—severe."

"Thanks," said Mike. "You look morally upright and superior in every possible way. I guess some things never change."

"Mikey—"

"Not my name anymore, _bro_." Mike was losing patience with the pretense. "Cut the shit. What the hell are you doing here? Isn't this a little out of your jurisdiction?"

Soft _tap-tap_ of feet touching the ground, then a welcome, lovely voice: "We followed the Braxton County Butcher here. Next time, do your damn jobs, and maybe we won't have to encroach."

No way. No freaking way. Breaking into a grin, Mike spun around to catch April in a hug and nearly knocked her off her feet.

"April! I don't believe this!" He twirled her around, planting a messy kiss on each of her cheeks. Laughing and protesting, she broke his grip in one strong, self-assured move that reeked of Leonardo, then drew back to look at him. She was dressed entirely in black and wore her hair in a low ponytail, but her bangs were shorter, wispier. It was very flattering. Mike stroked a red lock fondly between his fingertips and she allowed it, eyes raking him, seeing everything.

"You've gained weight, Michelangelo."

He sputtered while Don, recovering from Leonardo's abrupt appearance, chortled in his earpiece. "It's muscle!"

April's cheeks reddened as she replayed what she'd said. "I mean, of course it's muscle, but—but you were always so small, the smallest, and now—"

"Choose your words carefully, babe," said Casey Jones, stalking out of the shadows to join them. Age had announced himself on Casey in dark, becoming ways—the guy was a shade or two rougher, but steadier, more sedate. Still unquestionably Casey. He caught Mike's hand and gave it a brotherly squeeze, studying him with a clear, worried gaze. "You been gettin' our calls, Mikey?"

"We get the messages you leave."

"Don don't answer the phone."

"Yeah, no. He—I know he doesn't." What else could he say? Everyone knew Don was always home, but Mike was the one who handled all of the verbal communications, and only when it couldn't be avoided. They simply didn't respond to dinner invitations or call people up just to shoot the shit anymore. It was how it'd been for years. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to drop off the radar. I thought we were doing an okay job keeping up with your e-mails."

"You are," said April. Her smile grew wistful. "We just miss hearing your voices. Seeing you."

She was the single unscathed part of the train wreck that had become his life. Her and Casey; they were the only two things that still felt clean or intact. Unable to hold back, Mike folded them both into another hug, letting this one concede a tinge of the loneliness he still felt when he saw them. Casey thumped his shell. April held on a beat longer than was casual, her palm warm and platonic above the sharp jut of his hipbone.

Leo stood watch from the mouth of the alley, looking everywhere but Michelangelo.

"Well, at least we know we're after the same guy," April said, when they'd disengaged. She crouched beside Lo Prete, squinted at the deep, accurate strokes that had severed his jugular veins. "He went for the throat again, but these cuts are too jagged to be from the same implement he used last time. Some kind of rudimentary shiv?"

"Like the edge of a tin can," said Leo. "Something lightweight." He finally deigned to join them, emboldened by the conversation's business-like shift. "We were closing in on him, but he was too fast for us. He was gone the instant that woman turned onto the block."

"'Closing in on him,'" Mike repeated. "What did you see? How long have you been tailing him?"

"Nada, and not too long," said Casey. "He started at Leland. Fast motherfucker; couldn't even see what he was wearing. It's too dark. We was gonna call if he got any closer to your place."

"Not that we know where that is," Leo pointed out. "And not that you would have picked up."

Mike had felt the barbs coming from a mile away and was already scrutinizing the opposite end of the alley, shell toward Leo. There was a wooden fence partially obscured by a sheet-laden clothesline, about waist high. Mike leaned over and gave it an experimental shake. Sturdy enough to vault over? Probably. He swept aside the linens and squinted into the darkness, struggling to make out potential escape routes. The thin artery of concrete opened straight onto Longwood. Could be anywhere between here and Saint Anne's by now. He touched his earpiece. Don was messing with the contrast on the video feed now; Mike could hear the laptop fan whirling. Someday they were going to have to work on those night vision goggles. "Do you see anything I don't, Donnie?"

"Near your foot," said Don. "_A destra_."

April, standing close by, heard him too. She knelt to the ground before Mike could puzzle out his left and right, slipping her slender arm under the fence and patting blindly.

"Careful," Don warned, though she was already out of earshot. "It could be sharp, if it's what I—"

Clatter of metal. She hissed softly in pain. "Ow."

"Babe?" Casey was at her side in a flash, drawing her injured hand into his own. He flicked on a combat flashlight and swore. A thin, deep cut crossed her palm from the base of her thumb to her pinkie, already welling with blood. Mike reached instinctively for his white bandana, but Casey was already ripping the sleeve from his black shirt to twine around April's injury, brusque in his concern. "You gotta be careful," he scolded. "This might need stitches."

"Guess that's why we have two of them," said April, sheepishly flexing her unhurt hand. "I'm sorry. I heard Don's voice and got excited to be of use."

Pitching it low so she couldn't hear him, Don chuckled. "Just like old times."

Mike couldn't help a smile. "She looks good, doesn't she?"

"Exquisite."

"Don can see what you're seeing?" said Leo, frowning.

"The things I care to look at, yeah." Mike crouched down to search the pavement a little more carefully, though his arm was a tighter fit than April's under the fence. His fingers brushed against something slick. Warm from someone's grip. He nudged it back until he could pick it up safely, then drew it into his grip and straightened. Case redirected the flashlight toward the object. They crowded around it to examine the object.

"What is it?" said Casey.

"Dunno," said Mike, turning the piece of metal over and over. It was a fragment from some sort of blade, serrated by overuse instead of design. Somehow nostalgic. Undoubtedly the murder weapon. Mike shuddered, trying not to think of how many veins it had opened—then flinched when a particularly ragged edge caught the pad of one finger and drew a small bead of blood to the surface. "Ouch. Motherfucker. How do you think the dude handles this thing without slicing his hands open?"

Light dawned in both Leo's eyes and April's, but Don, true to form, was already a few steps ahead: "Can you bag it for me somehow? Try not to touch it any more than you have to. I'll run it through CODIS, see if anything comes up."

"Roger that, Donnie," said Mike. He glanced around. "Anyone got a Ziplock?"

The best they could come up with was the small beaded clutch April had tucked behind her waistband. She had to divest it of makeup, Kleenex, credit and ID cards, her birth control, and a few pocket knives to make room for the filthy scrap of metal, and Mike felt a stab of guilt when the blood began soaking irrecoverably through the satin lining.

"I swear we'll buy you a new one."

"Deal," said April, "but only because that means you'll have to interact with me again sometime this decade." She hesitated. Her disposition had grown pensive, already sensing his imminent departure. "I assume you and Don will want to take it from here. Don't suppose you'd like to collaborate?"

"You know I wish we could." He didn't need to consult with Don on this one. They'd discussed it a hundred times in the last five years, not that that made it any easier to let her down face-to-face. "I'm sorry, April. With the way things have been since—and anyway, this is kind of our territory now, isn't it? Our home. We should be the ones taking care of it. No need for you to make the trip here if you don't have to."

"Maybe we want to," said April, but she was nodding in understanding, if not acceptance. She looked like she wanted to hug him again. She didn't. Instead, she flung a sudden punch at his arm, and it actually hurt. "Call us, Michelangelo! I mean it!"

"Jesus! No promises," said Mike, rubbing at his elbow. "Especially if it comes with this kind of abuse!"

"Let us know what you figure out," said Casey.

"We will. Totally."

"It was good to see you again." Casey did give him a final embrace, but it was sort of gruff and desultory, what Mike recognized from his childhood as a man hug. To counterbalance the machismo, Case added, "That goes great with your eyes, by the way."

Mike struck a sassy pose with April's clutch before tucking it into his belt. "Oh, I know. Moody Blues are so hot this autumn."

Casey laughed. "Hasta la bye bye, Mikey. Leo—you comin'?"

"I'll catch up," said Leo.

His tone was inarguable. Michelangelo felt the day's good humor draining away, his expression settling back into its normal stiff guard. His heart was thudding in his chest. Crap. This was really happening, wasn't it? They were seriously going to hash out years of familial drama next to the Braxton County Butcher's latest victim. This was all kinds of weird. The guy's body was still warm. Mike reset one foot a fraction of an inch backward, half-ready to leap away into the dark and sprint all the way home. Only spite kept him anchored there in the alleyway. Anger numbed his arms and legs. He wondered if he looked as malicious as he felt.

Leo waited until April and Casey had disappeared down the block before trying to speak, and even then, he struggled for words for a long, long time.

"Well," he said at last.

"Well," Mike returned, equally bland. He tried to hold his tongue, tried to make Leo sweat it out and crack first for once, but, of course, his mouth was a bastard, and the words were pouring forth before he could stop them: "Man. I gotta hand it to you, Leonardo. Brain and Brawn nine-point-oh are coming along splendidly. You did a bang-up job with your new apprentices."

"My—? Oh." Leo's fists tightened. "Casey and April aren't my apprentices, Mikey."

"No? You prefer 'substitutes,' then? 'Replacements?'"

"They're my team. My family."

"I see you still haven't learned that there's a difference."

Leonardo physically recoiled at that, stung. Mike's throat closed up. Yeah, he'd said it to hurt him—that was the game these days: draw enough blood so no one could tell that most of it was his. But this was insane. How had it gotten so bad this quickly? Michelangelo tried to swallow nonchalantly and crossed his arms, willing himself not to cleave to his eldest brother and beg for a ceasefire. The urge was almost irrepressible. It'd been more than a year since he'd seen Leo in person, and now that he wasn't posing for April and Casey, the vigor and self-assurance had vanished from his posture. Leonardo the Brave was just as confused as the rest of them. Mike didn't know whether to comfort him or laugh in his face.

"That it?" he prompted instead, settling for neither.

Leo shut his eyes briefly, collecting himself. Then he drew in a careful breath. "H-how are you?"

"I'm fine." Mike bit out the response almost before the last syllable had left Leo's mouth.

"Good. That's good. And—how is Don?"

Don didn't speak up—had long since muted his microphone or walked away, if the preternatural silence on his end was any indication. Michelangelo was confident enough in his understanding of Don's feelings these days to answer for him accurately, but it wasn't his place. If Don had anything to say to Leo, he would do so directly. Mike shrugged. "Don't worry about it. You washed your hands of him. Remember?"

"It's not like that. I—" Leo began.

"—'did it for his own benefit.' Right." Mike finished the sentence with him, unable to keep the hostile note out of his voice. "Disowning Donnie did a whole lot of good, really. Hell, the entire family benefited from your selfless decision! Look at where we are now!"

"Mikey—"

"You did it for yourself, you piece of shit. You did it for yourself, and you won't even admit it."

That finally set Leo off. Michelangelo felt the kiss of the katana under the shelf of his chin before he even saw Leo move, felt the steel stop there with firm, dangerous pressure. Leo's elbow dug into Mike's side as he steadied the blade in an expert reverse grip. His eyes blazed behind his mask. After all of his empty questions and timidity, the prideful intensity of his reaction was almost a relief, even if it did come with that thin pain against Mike's clenched jaw. Leo backed him up against the brick facing. For the first time since their unexpected encounter, he actually looked like himself again.

"You know _nothing_," Leo whispered. His mouth was inches from Mike's, teeth bared, pale and surreal in the night. "That's the worst part."

"So clue me in," said Michelangelo.

The sword wavered. Leo's grasp was going lax. "I can't. I can't do that to you. There's too much you don't—listen, Mikey, I didn't do everything right when I was your leader. I know that. But for once, I did what I needed to do to protect you, even if you don't understand it right now. If a part of you could just _trust_ me—if you could just hold onto the life-force that makes you who you are—"

Michelangelo saw rain. Tasted dirt and galvanized metal, salt, something tinny and sweet and chemical. When the katana cleared his throat, Mike hurtled forward, seizing Leo's wrist to twist him off balance.

With his emotional walls down, Leo's normally perfect defenses were spidered with cracks. Mike found one of those fractures and split it wide open. Let him aim for the breaking parts. Let Leo have chasms, too. He yanked his brother's arm until he heard a pop, then planted a palm against his shell and shoved. Leo went down on both knees and an elbow, katana clattering down the alley. It was a lame push, strong enough only for emphasis. Leo'd recovered his form even before he hit the pavement. He could have easily taken Michelangelo out with one sweep of a leg, and should've, frankly, for the cheapness of the attack as much as its shitty execution.

But he didn't. He shifted into a crouch, grimacing with pain, then fixed Michelangelo with a stare so troubled it_ burned_.

"Mikey." Leo's right arm was hanging at a weird angle. "Mikey, what's happening to—"

"Mikey's gone," said Michelangelo. His voice cracked. God, he was such a fucking _child_. "You don't know either, Leo. You have no idea what's happened to me!"

And because it was too much—because some sick fuck was slaughtering his neighbors, because he'd just dislocated his estranged brother's shoulder, because he was confused and ruined and his family was _still_ falling apart fiber by fiber—Mike shut up, sucked in a sharp breath, and did the mature ninja thing.

He fled.

* * *

By the time Mike slipped in through the open window of his apartment, Don had spread out his DNA testing equipment across the countertop alongside a meal of cereal and reheated com bo nuong. Donnie was a passable chef—had to be, now that they were responsible for all of their own meals—but he seldom attempted anything more ambitious than leftovers or omelets or quick vegetable casseroles. He was already on his feet when Mike stepped into the kitchenette. His eyes, magnified behind his goggles and nano gear, were wide with rare excitement.

"Do you have the blood sample?"

"Nah, I got hungry on my way home and ate it," said Mike, pulling up a stool and placing April's clutch onto the counter. It had scarcely touched the chipped Formica before Don swept it up, fumbling the clasps open. He had sheathed his hands in Saran Wrap. Years of inventions, and he still hadn't gotten around to making three-fingered disposable gloves.

"Cute, Mikey. I would've seen you do that, you know."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't have been able to stop me."

"The sclerotic camera you're wearing is equipped with a chemical compound that can break down your optic nerve and blind you permanently," said Don, lifting the scrap of metal from the purse. "You'd have still been able to see with the other eye, but the pain probably would've prevented you from imbibing the rest of the sample."

Mike, in the process of pouring a bowl of cereal, whipped around and scattered Frosted Flakes all over the tile. "What? Blinding chemical _what_? Donatello, are you fucking _insane_?"

Don glanced up at him, briefly startled, then tried and failed to repress a grin.

"Oh. Goddamn it," Mike moaned—but he was laughing despite everything, and so was Donnie, and it felt ridiculously good to have his brother's complete focus for the first time in God knew how long. He was used to fighting for Don's attention against his projects and equations and labyrinthine suppositions, but it'd become lonelier since they'd gotten the apartment together, where Don could be about a million miles away even while they were sharing the same ratty mattress. Pretty neat trick for two people connected 24/7 by eye-mounted cameras and an open audio feed. Tonight, though, their gazes were sticking. Maybe they'd been jarred into really seeing each other again by the slap-in-the-face reminder of Leo, Casey, and April. Don set down his precious piece of evidence and took a seat beside Mike, stripping off his makeshift gloves. Mike finished his bite of cereal, then leaned in to give his brother a chaste, lingering kiss.

"Well, hello there," said Don, surprised.

"Hey," said Mike. He propped his chin in his hand and twisted sideways on his stool. The run home had alleviated some of the tension in his shoulders, but his stomach was still giving off an occasional repentant lurch. "Were you watching that whole time? You know. The thing with—"

"No. After April said goodbye, I killed the feed and went to take a shower." Don studied him. He bumped Mikey's foot with one of his own. "Was that wrong of me?"

"No, 'course not."

"It seemed like he wanted to talk to you privately."

"I don't think he would've minded you listening in, but I didn't act so great near the end there. I said some things that—oh, whatever. I'm glad you missed it." Mike stirred his cereal, appetite gone. He couldn't believe he'd freaked out like that. "I messed up his shoulder. Dislocated it, probably."

"Master Splinter will take care of it. He's handled worse."

"He asked about you, you know. He said—"

"Mike, I really don't want to talk about Leonardo. Okay?"

Michelangelo closed his mouth. "Okay," he said reluctantly. He still didn't know what exactly had gone down between his brothers—why Leo had not-so-gently expelled Don from the lair all those years ago, in part, but more importantly, why Don had actually _complied_—and why Don didn't hate him for it. Mike had never been able to forgive Leo for what he saw as the first step in their family's disintegration, and it'd all been downhill from there. Nearest he could figure, Leo had disagreed with Don's romantic preference something? But that didn't seem quite right. Leo could be a real twat, but bigotry was never his bag. And the way he'd spoken to Mike tonight made him wonder if the conflict been purposely kept from him. Maybe it was some deep philosophical shit that Mike couldn't understand? Something ideological, perhaps, or something to do with R—

No. No, Michelangelo was leaving _that_ one well alone. He pushed his bowl away on impulse and stood up between Don's parted knees, kissing him again, this time with none of his previous delicacy.

Don kissed back for a moment, languorously letting their tongues mingle. Then he turned his head and yawned. "Gosh. I'm tired."

Mike drew away, face growing warm. "Oh, sure. Cool. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Wait. Mikey." Don caught his arm by the wrist as he tried to withdraw. Raised Mike's hand to his mouth, sweeping his tongue gently across his rough knuckles. "It was just a comment," he said, curling a leg around Mike's calves to keep him in place. "Okay? You had a rough day. I'm not refusing you."

"You know that's, uh, always an option, right?"

"I know," said Don, giving his bandana a scolding tug. "That's why I don't."

Something about that gave Michelangelo a soft chill—like, was Don actually gratified by something as fundamental as _consent_?—but then Don was licking Mike's palm, sucking his fingers between his teeth in slow, suggestive passes, and the bad patrol was melting away with the heat of their bodies. They shuffled against each other, touching and kissing. Mike knocked over one of the stools as he urged Don around and hoisted him up against the beveled edge of the dinner table. The surface was a mess of monitors and computer towers, thrumming and blinking like a miniature city during morning rush hour. Don rocked into a perilous stack of books with his shell, made an unsuccessful grab to stabilize them. Research notes and comic books fluttered everywhere. Don sighed, and Mike grinned into the crook of his neck, letting his eyes slip shut as Don hooked both thumbs under his belt and pulled him closer.

"Hard, okay?" said Don.

"However you want," said Mike. He was already short of breath.

Don kissed him again. "Don't let him get to you."

That was when something pushed open the living room window.

The swinging pane on the left struck the wall and shattered. The wind, just beginning to pick up during Mike's sprint home, was low and keening now, sucking the blinds out into the early morning air. Mike and Don had tugged apart in an instant. It'd been years since they'd carried their weapons on them—the level of criminal competency in their hometown simply didn't merit it—but they improvised reflexively, Don with a spare curtain rod, Mike harboring both knives from their place settings in one tight fist.

"Show yourself!" Mike yelled. He didn't realize he'd hauled Don behind him until Don hissed, gripping the back of his shell. Whatever it was, it was trying to crawl into their apartment.

They didn't move as it scrabbled along the windowsill. It flung one arm inside. Dirty untrimmed nails on each of its three fingers, needle-deadly, coarse skin dappled red and brown. A twin appendage seemed injured: fresh blood dribbled onto the beige carpet, then spun tiny crimson threads across the wall as it clawed for handholds.

Mike pinched one knife between his knuckles and pulled his arm back, aiming. Steady, now. Steady and patient. As soon as the fucker's head showed, he could—

—but in a sudden, _human_ move, the thing split its weight between both straining limbs, then hoisted itself up with a distinctive athleticism that froze Mike solid. He _knew_ this monster. No weapons, no gear. No mask. Just six feet of muscle slicked in blood to the elbows, struggling in through the casement, snarling and snapping at the air like a beast. Then it made it all the way inside and collapsed to a heap in the broken glass. Lay there as if dead. Dirt and blood everywhere. The pupils in those familiar gold eyes contracted to tiny black pinpricks, feral and unseeing, even as Mike's knees failed him and Don cried out and lunged.

"Raph! _Raphael_!"

Their brother had been missing for five years.

* * *

**End of Chapter One**

* * *

Thank you for reading. Feedback greatly appreciated.


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